Page 82 of His Savage Ruin
"He tried to charm her," Rafael cuts in, leaning forward conspiratorially. "The arms dealer. Full Dante treatment—compliments, smooth talk, that thing he does with his cufflinks where he adjusts them just so." He demonstrates, flicking an imaginary cuff with exaggerated flair. "The woman looked at him like he was something she scraped off her shoe."
Enzo's mouth curves into a genuine smile, and he shakes his head at the memory. "She called him 'pretty boy' in Czech. Told him to send a real man next time."
Isabella covers her mouth but her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, and Luca's trying not to smile but failing. Even Matteo's expression softens into something approaching amusement.
Dante's jaw tightens, but there's color high on his cheekbones. "I still secured the deal."
"After Enzo stepped in and spoke her language," Rafael adds, raising his glass. "To Dante's wounded pride. May it someday recover."
"To Dante's pride," the table echoes, and even Dante manages a rueful smile.
The story shifts something in the atmosphere, and the stiffness I've been feeling since the ceremony eases a bit.These men—dangerous, violent, loyal to a fault—they tease each other like brothers.And sitting here listening to them, I realize they're including me in this, treating me like I belong at this table instead of being an outsider who needs to be tolerated. "Your turn, Enzo," Isabella says, eyes sparkling. "Tell her about the time you got stuck in the air duct."
Enzo's expression goes carefully blank. "That's classified."
"You got stuck in an air duct?" I can't help the smile.
"He was twenty pounds heavier then," Rafael supplies helpfully. "And the intel was wrong about the duct size. He was wedged in there for two hours before we could extract him."
"I wasn't stuck," Enzo says with dignity. "I was strategically pausing."
"You were stuck." Matteo's voice carries dry amusement. "And cursing in three languages while Rafael laughed instead of helping."
"I was providing moral support," Rafael protests.
The table erupts in laughter, and I join in because the image of stoic Enzo wedged in an air duct cursing in multiple languages is genuinely funny.My ribs ache from laughing, and it feels good to let go of some of the tension I've been holding.
Matteo's hand finds mine under the table. Laces our fingers together. The ring presses between our palms—permanent, binding, mine now.
When dessert is cleared—some elaborate tiramisu that melts on the tongue—and the men start to drift toward cigars and whiskey, Matteo stands, pulling me with him.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"To bed." His voice drops lower, meant only for me. "I've been patient all night. But you're my wife now, and I'm done sharing you with an audience."
My face burns. Isabella makes a sound that might be a laugh. Rafael wolf-whistles until Enzo smacks the back of his head. Matteo doesn't wait for their teasing to end. Just leads me out of the dining room, through the hallway, up the stairs to our room.
When the door closes behind us, the sounds of the party fade. It's just us—husband and wife—standing in lamplight, rings on our fingers, the weight of what we just did settling around us.
"How do you feel?" he asks.
Instead of answering, I kiss him. And this time, there's nothing gentle about it.
He kisses me back with hunger that's been restrained all night. His hands slide up my sides, finding the zipper at my back. The sound fills the quiet room as he lowers it slowly, knuckles dragging against my spine. The silk—his mother's silk—pools at my feet.
I step out of it carefully, and he picks it up, drapes it over the chair with more care than I expected. When he turns back, his eyes rake over me in nothing but white lace and the ring on my finger.
"Come here," he says, voice rough.
I cross over to him. His hands settle on my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel his heart hammering through the layers of his suit, feel the heat of him even through fabric and lace.
My fingers find his tie—the one he finally put on for the ceremony—and I loosen it, pull it free. His jacket comes next. He shrugs out of it, and I work on his shirt buttons, feeling his breathing change as I expose more skin.
When I push the shirt off his shoulders, my hands trace the scars I'm learning by heart. The old knife wound on his ribs. The bullet graze across his shoulder. The newer mark—still pink—from the ambush at the Meridian.
"I want to try something," I hear myself say.
His hands still on my hips. "What?"
